Healing
by awildthing
Summary: In the Houses of Healing, Faramir and Éowyn heal in more ways than one. Non-linear narrative.


1.

It was several weeks before I had enough strength to stand upright on my own, and several weeks more before I was able to walk without aid. At the insistence of my faithful Beregond, who was ever at my side, every day I paced the perimeter of the courtyard of the Houses of Healing. I walked the same path so often in those weeks I was sure I could find my way around the courtyard while blindfolded.

Another thing I was sure of was that, if presented with pen and paper, I could draw a perfect likeness of the White Lady of Rohan while blindfolded.

* * *

2.

Often I would wake suddenly in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, chased from a nightmare. While I could remember nothing corporeal, when I closed my eyes I would see the hot scorch of fire illuminated against the blackness. I could not guess what this meant, if it meant anything at all or was simply a device conjured by my imagination to unsettle me.

When I informed Beregond about this, his skin paled and he seemed to lose the ability of speech. I tried to question him but my efforts were not fruitful; he excused himself some minutes later and stumbled from the room.

I wondered what had overtaken him. This was odd behaviour, out of character. I should have liked to understand the panic that was arisen in his eyes at my words, but I feared he would never disclose the reason for his discomfort.

Even though hours had passed since I woke from my fitful sleep, I still found myself agitated and anxious as a result of my dreams.

* * *

3.

"Do you ever wonder how your life would have been with the absence of fear?"

It was a pleasant day- as pleasant as it could be, in these times. There was a noticeable absence of birdsong; the trees were barren of nests and leaves; there was an austere mood about the shoulders of the patients of the Houses.

None of the above registered in my head, for I was surrounded by the glow of Lady Éowyn's beauty.

"It depends on your description of fear," I smiled, folding my hands behind my back. The Lady Éowyn stared ahead, her fair brow creasing in thought.

"Fear of war, of death, of—of a cage," she clarified haltingly. I bowed my head in thought. A breeze upset the flaxen strands of Éowyn's hair. We walked the perimeter of the courtyard, the same path my feet had tread every day for the past fortnight.

"You seem to be considering my question with the utmost gravity," Éowyn laughed, and my heart wept at the sound. "Pray, what is on your mind?"

"I was simply wondering how to properly phrase my response," I replied, and flexed my shoulder (which, a dreadful habit to begin with, was even worse now that I had sustained an injury there), "I... well, speaking in a figurative sense, that is... I mean-"

"It is alright, my Lord," she laughed again, making my heart contract accordingly, "do not feel obligated to answer just yet. Let it sit in your mind." I expelled a relieved breath and her eyes twinkled in response.

She clasped my hand and I swear to the Valar my heart sang, or cracked to pieces, or maybe both.

* * *

4.

Rain-clouds threatened to descend upon the city of Minas Tirith. The weather had been such for so many days now that I longed for even the most barren stream of sunlight to cast away the darkness. I had the disagreeable feeling that the current climate was a harbinger of doom, that it forshadowed the outcome of the battle that was almost upon us; I had to content myself with petty little pastimes to keep my mind off the sore fact that I would not participate in this one. Not this one.

Oh, how I wished it to be otherwise.

Thoughts battled for dominance in my mind, but the most imperative was what I imagined would be the look on my father's face and the words spewing forth from his mouth when he would hear what had become of me: a recalcitrant, incapacitated fool. Hadn't he ordered me to die fighting the enemy, die with whatever honor I could muster? What would he do, what would he say, when he learned not only that I had failed in that respect, but also in slaying any significant number of beasts?

This had been my last chance to prove myself to be cut from the same cloth as Boromir. My dear, lost brother... I could never be as ardently deified as he. Not by my father, at least, who was the only man whose opinion I counted most (save for Beregond's, of course). Perhaps this was why I hadn't been paid a visit from my father since I had become a patient at the Houses of Healing: he was too shamed to contact me.

I could not dispute the cruel fact, knowing in my heart that he was right to remain distant from me, because I deserved his absence. This was my punishment for not doing expressly as he had bid me. I could only hope that he would decide my punishment to be over and that he would pay me a visit soon; I longed for his presence, no matter how furious his demeanour.

* * *

5.

I heard from the whisperings of her ladies-in-waiting that she thrashed about at night, locked in festering nightmares which allowed her no absolution.

I did not eavesdrop on their quiet conversations; I happened to be taking my evening stroll through the gardens and stumbled upon a clandestine meeting between three harried-looking girls whom I recognized to be the healers-in-training.

"The poor Lady Éowyn," one of them was saying, "she hasn't been getting no sleep lately."

"Good lord, she keeps me up at night, tending to her; she sleeps fitfully at best, and when she dreams, her brow glosses over with a sheen of sweat that won't be mopped up by my cloth," replied another, folding her arms across her chest.

The first one sighed. "Do you even know what goes on in that head? you're the one watching over 'er all the time."

the third one, youngest in looks, piped up. "I heard her mutterin' to herself," she said, "as she was dressing. She don't let me dress her. She does it herself. Anyway, she was mutterin' something about the Witch-king, and how he haunted her even in death... What do you think that means?"

The three ladies fell silent in wonder. Up until now, the rumour of her slaying the Witch-king had remained just that: the suggestion of a gossip. Unseen and unnoticed, I retreated to my room in order to contemplate my mysterious daytime companion.

The only news I had heard of the battle at Pelennor was what had been told to me by Beregond, who, while faithful to me and a dear friend, was not known for excellent storytelling skills. He must not have know that the man who vanquished the Witch-king of Angmar was indeed not a man, but a woman.

A beautiful, capable, unfathomable woman.

She and I had met under strained circumstances at best. It was a time of war, and so it was a time of little hope and much sacrifice. She was possessed by an evil humour, and smiled infrequently.

But lords, when she did smile...

I sat by the open window, thinking, until the candle I had lit burned down and stained the wood of my writing desk. My posture had not changed in those hours and my gaze rested nigh unblinkingly on an insignificant tree underneath my window. I wondered where my mind had gone to.

Only weeks ago my thoughts had been only of battle strategies and swordplay. The thing I'd wanted most was my father's approval. Now, my thoughts were only of the Lady Éowyn. The thing I wanted most was her attention.

Or better: her hand in marriage.

I could not argue that I had not entertained the thought. I knew I loved her from the moment my eyes had alighted upon her beauty. She was the fairest lady I'd ever seen, fairer than all the women of Minas Tirith. I must have been the luckiest of fools when she'd decided to join me on my daily walks through the gardens.

But now I sat and thought about the source of her nightmares. If she had indeed been the one to slay the Witch-king, she must have endured a heavy blow— heavy enough to give her reason to be a patient here, like me. The location of her wound, being either psychological or physical, was not clear to me— yet she did tend to favour her left arm, which should have been an indication of her struggle with the Witch-king. However, the subject of our injuries, and the causes of them, was unspokenly agreed to be a prohibited topic between us.

And then my thoughts invariably strayed to my Lord Denethor, and how dearly he might have wished to exchange me for her, had he known the extent of her capabilities. This concept could not persuade me to resent her, however; I believed that I, too, would have preferred her as a child if I were in his position. This revelation shook my body and it was then that I realized I was fatigued from all the brooding I'd done.

I reached to blow out the candle, only to find that it had quite gone out.

* * *

6.

The day's weather was the same as the last: dreary, uninspired. This did not stop Éowyn from joining me as she did every day. I found that I was quite getting my strength back and had tragically less reason to stumble (by accident) and have my Lady catch me with a wink and a smile.

Today, however, her mood was far less hospitable. I recognized the dark shadows under her eyes, for I found matching sets on my own face when I looked in a mirror. Mine, I had acquired from sleepless nights and a recurring dream of mine involving that unambiguous lick of flame (whose meaning I still hadn't been able to glean from my interviews with Beregond, nor anyone else come to pay me a visit). I knew she'd been having her own nightmares, about the Witch-king and whatever ill effects by which his attack had poisoned her. I could not breach the subject, however; I feared that she would cease speaking with me for some time.

We strolled in a companionable silence for a time. Once she knelt to pick a flower, and weave it intricately into her hair. She felt my gaze and her cheeks coloured charmingly.

"This is the only flower I could recognize here," she explained, eyes cast downwards, "it too grows in Rohan. I—I could not resist." I beheld the sudden urge to lift her chin with my finger, but quelled the impulse.

"I do not find it frivolous," I replied, "on the contrary. I find it perfectly normal, and respectable." I paused. "I expect that you yearn to return to the Riddermark, my Lady?" she gazed across the gardens wistfully. I gazed at her in a similar manner.

"Yes, I do," she said quietly. "But then again, I am proud of what I have done to defend my people." She lifted her chin a fraction higher and her eyes adopted a steely glint.

"I do not contest what you say," I replied hurriedly, not wishing to have her project her agitation on to me. "I find your acts truly admirable. I—I believe that my father would have greatly appreciated your counsel. Perhaps I could arrange a meeting between the two of you."

Éowyn gave me a queer look. "Pardon me? You must be mistaken, my Lord. Are you feeling quite well?" I assured her that I was. "While I thank you for your interest, a meeting between me and the Steward would simply not be possible."

My brow furrowed. "Why would that be? I understand that he might not wish for me to contact him at this time, but—"

"My Lord," Éowyn interrupted, "have you not been told?"

"Told what?" I snapped, finding myself to be quite agitated now. We had stopped walking and were now standing rather closely in the middle of the garden path.

"Oh, dear Valar," muttered Éowyn, putting her hand to her mouth. Her cheeks reddened again. "I am so, so sorry, my Lord, but I really mustn't be the one to tell you." She turned her face away.

This time I did reach out.

"What are you keeping from me, Éowyn?" I demanded. "What secret are you keeping from me that everyone else seems to be included in withholding?"

She wrenched from my grasp, and attempted to change the topic of conversation. "Why do you hold your father's word in such esteem, my Lord Faramir? Did you never feel the torment of his abuse? The agony of his neglect? I know how he treated you in comparison to your brother. It's vulgar."

I reeled back as if I had been struck in the face. "My Lady, I would ask you not to speak of things you do not understand—"

"Do you not see that your father was a beastly despot?" cried Éowyn, throwing her hands up in the air.

At any other time, I would have appreciated the concern she felt for my well-being, but I did not understand what she spoke of in regards to my father mistreating me; I had had the misfortune of suffering his reproach whenever I committed a wrongdoing, but it was my fault, and the fault of no one else that I had been so disobedient so often in my life and was unable to become what my father had hoped I'd be.

At any other time, I would have stopped to appreciate the colour spread over her cheeks, the way her bosom heaved with passion, the violent glint in her eyes.

But not on this occasion.

"You do not know what you are saying," I spoke slowly and quietly, trying to suppress the unbridled fury that was coursing through my body.

Éowyn's anger faded, and she regarded me with utmost misery. "My Lord," she murmured, "your father—"

"Speak no more to me!" I spat, and turned on my heel. I imagined that the end of her sentence fell from her lips and fluttered away in the wind, unheard. I was so enraged that I entertained the possibility of never speaking to the Lady Éowyn ever again.

Late at night, however, after hours of dissecting our conversation, I became aware that every time she referred to my father, Éowyn always spoke in past tense. I could not fathom why that was. Perhaps my inability to think was due to my constant wakefulness. I needed sleep and perhaps tomorrow morning I could consider the day's debacle with a fresh perspective.

This did not mean, however, that I would forgive the Lady Éowyn for her transgressions. I felt the blood boiling through my veins in anger even as I blew out the candle and got into bed. I found that even the lost look on her face as I left her in the gardens could not move me to feel any regret for my actions.

* * *

7.

I weighed the sword in my hands. It was not made for me; the blade ran slightly too long for my arm, the hilt was too spacious and could fit three of my handspans, and as I attempted to balance it on a finger the blade wobbled and would not sit still. However, I could not expect any more for a sword that was not commissioned specifically for my interests. The sword was nice to look at; the design of the hilt was reminiscent of the eleven designs I had come across in some of my readings.

I had sent Beregond to the marketplace the day before yesterday to purchase two swords. He had come across a smithy and had done the best he could in choosing weapons for two people who were absent at the time.

I looked up at Éowyn, who was similarly running her palm over the pommel, the hilt, the forte, the blade of her own sword. She regarded it with a keen eye; she was well acquainted with the intimacies of the sword.

She flipped it edge over pommel and caught it neatly, taking my breath away with the ease with which she handled the weapon. Her gaze met mine and she grinned in challenge.

"Are you sure you can keep up, my Lord?" she asked. I knew it was a jest, yet I responded truthfully.

"I do not have much confidence in my swordsmanship when faced with an opponent such as you, my Lady." she smiled again but this time more gently.

"If you remain unwell, my Lord Faramir, our duel can wait until your condition improves." I flexed my shoulder unconsciously.

"No, no," my voice adopted a cheery quality. "I feel fine. Luckily for you, there will be no need to accommodate for your injury!" I, however, was impaired and would have to wield my sword with my left hand.

Beregond stood off to my left, fiddling with a loose thread on his tunic. "My Lord, I ask you to reconsider this," he spoke up, face flushing slightly, "you are still too weak for this strenuous exercise!"

I was slightly irritated. I laid down my sword and turned to face him. "My dear Beregond, I insist that there is nothing you can do to stop me. For weeks now I have contented myself with leisurely walks in the gardens, and while enjoyable," —I cast my gaze towards Éowyn— "they do nothing to aid in my rehabilitation." Beregond looked slightly abashed.

"Of course, Faramir, you know I only worry for your health."

My foul mood abated, I smiled warmly. "My dear Beregond, I do. But worry not; I hope that the Lady Éowyn will consent to grant me some reprieve."

"Of course, my Lord, you have my word!" a wink accompanied her words and I was once again struck dumb by her perfection.

"Then raise your swords," Beregond commanded, passing a weary hand over his face. We did as we were bid. "Ready? Begin."

I immediately knew that I was doomed to lose. Éowyn's form was, if not perfect, at least excellent. She struck with confidence and her feet danced as she lunged forwards and jumped out of reach of my sword, thrusting and sidestepping and parrying blows. I, with my disabled right arm, was no match for her skill. I quickly began to sweat. My left arm, unpracticed in swordplay, ached with every move I made.

"Tired, my Lord?" she asked, hardly breathless. She ran the tip of her sword across the length of my blade in challenge. "Shall you draw the white flag, so to speak?"

I bared my teeth, laughing. "Never. Do you wish for me to do so because you yourself grow weary, but mask this under concern for my health?" she pushed away from me and swung her sword over her head, bringing it down hard just as I brought mine up to meet it. The two swords clashed and Éowyn quickly stepped back, noting the tensity of my jaw and the sweat on my brow.

"Never," she echoed, and dropped her sword. Confused, my grip slackened, and she dived for my knees, pulling my feet from under me. She stood over me in victory and I, winded and taken by surprise, could only watch her in wonder.

She extended her hand to me, and I grasped it gladly.

"Ready for another bout?"

* * *

8.

From my position in the courtyard I had an optimal view of the goings-on of the city below. I sat on a bench overlooking the main streets of Minas Tirith, watching the proceedings. A book lay discarded beside me.

The rustling of her skirts in the grass told me of her approach. I slid over on the bench to accommodate her.

"Good day, Lady Éowyn."

"Is it really a good day?" I winced. She had seen, then, what was happening in the city today. I had expected this, but not welcomed it.

"No," I said, slouching forwards, "it is indeed not. Am I so easy to read?"

A cold hand covered mine and I felt the thrill of her lips on my ear. "Don't let's amuse ourselves with petty pleasantries today, Faramir. I sense what is on your mind. In fact, it weighs rather heavily on my own as well."

"You wish to join them on their march." it was a blunt statement, brief. I knew it to be true, because in my heart I, too yearned to be involved with the throng of soldiers readying their arms this morning. Readying for a battle whose outcome I dreaded.

She nodded earnestly. "More than anything. I know that you do, too." I tightened my fingers around hers in response. We watched in silence as the horde of men grimly marched down the steep streets and past the city limits. Women and children watched in equal quietude as their brothers, sons, fathers, husbands prepared themselves for what I knew to be certain death.

This was not to be the dawn of the day of battle, but war approached; I felt it riding on the currents of the wind, saw it in the tense posture of Éowyn's back, found it in the frightened faces of the men and women of Gondor.

There was a sharp intake of breath beside me, and then Éowyn began to weep in earnest. Shocked, I knew not how to react.

"Oh, how I wish to ride among them," she cried, "my heart breaks with want! Oh, my King Theoden, forgive me!" I knew that King Theoden had died on Pelennor field, and I knew that Éowyn had protected him from the Witch-king. I gathered her close, but could give no words of comfort; I seemed to have no hope left in me for that.

* * *

9.

Today, and for every day after, I would confine myself to my room in grieving. I had learned in the most shocking manner the most shocking news I had ever heard.

My father was dead.

My father was dead. Dead, by his own hand.

I walked alone this morning, as Lady Éowyn had fallen feverish and could not recieve any visitors. I strolled through the gardens wondering if I might pick flowers to have sent to her room when I came across Beregond speaking urgently with one of the halflings I recognized to be Éowyn's dear friend, Meriadoc Brandybuck.

"...mustn't know," Beregond was saying, his gaze flicking from place to place nervously. I concealed myself in some shrubbery.

"But it's not fair!" the halfling stamped his foot. "Lord Faramir has a right to know, Éowyn agreed—"

"She is Lady Éowyn to you, Master Meriadoc," Beregond interrupted sternly, "and I don't care a whit what she says, it would be preferable for my Lord if he were not to be informed until it was truly necessary. And seeing as how he committed the act himself—"

This greatly confused me. I was the topic of their conversation, and from what I had gleaned, there was a secret being kept from me? My mind traveled back to a moment a few weeks ago, when Éowyn had let slip some detail that she believed she should have kept quiet. My heart raced. Would this be the day—?

"His father is dead, you fool!" shouted Meriadoc, and from that moment my ears ceased to function, along with any and all of my other senses. I seemed to be swimming in a sea of nothingness, which was black but white all at once, and smell and sound and feel were so overwhelming that they all became insignificant.

His father is dead, you fool!

I know not how I managed to stumble from the gardens without having been detected, or how I managed to retrace my steps up to my room and collapse upon the bed.

I now laid prostrate upon the clean sheets. I had done so for innumerable hours. Beregond came and went, hammering on the door, but I said nothing in response and he gave up. Night was closing in but this did not register.

His father is dead, you fool!

Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, son of Ecthelion, father of Boromir and Faramir. Dead.

Although I was a scholar and took pride in my knowledge, for a reason unknown to me I could not begin to understand this concept.

At one point in time I realized I was choking on some wetness— too salty to be water— and further realized that I was weeping so much I imagined my tears could fill a whole bath. I could not motivate my hand to rise and clean my face, but instead, with much effort, I turned my head into the pillows.

I remembered the day I knew Boromir to be dead. I remembered the look upon my father's face whenever my brother's name, or his legacy, was mentioned in his presence. I remembered my father ordering me to ride out to Osgiliath with hardly any soldiers. I remembered the times he smiled at me. He did not smile at me any more.

I was consumed by another fresh wave of grief. My poor father— his dying wish had probably been to see the face of his cherished son, his firstborn. His last thoughts had certainly not been of his cowardly fool of a son who could never measure up to the splendor of the older one. I wept for my father's pain; how he must have disliked me! How he must have wished, every day, for another Boromir instead of a Faramir.

And, try as I might, I just could not give him that.

But oh, how I'd tried! I'd trained for hours upon hours until I bled to master the sword, like Boromir had. I could not impress my father. I turned to books, and became wise and knowledgeable. I could not impress my father. I rode out on a fool's errand to die because he bade me to do so... and I failed. I still could not impress my father.

Now I would never earn his forgiveness, his acceptance, his love.

But there I was again, selfishly pitying myself when I should have been begging my father's spirit, Valar bless it, to forgive me my sins and to accept the man I was, the character I could never change.

I hoped, wherever he was, that he had found Boromir, and that in doing so he could be peaceful once more.

* * *

10.

Lady Éowyn and I were seated at either side of a chess table. Dark rain fell heavily all around the gardens, but we were safe under the overhanging lip of the roof that jutted out from the building itself. Thir was one area, at least, in which I excelled more than my fair Lady. She was, of course, a gracious loser.

"Oh, look," she said laughingly, pointing at the board, "my chess pieces seem to all have disappeared— they've all relocated to your side of the table!" Indeed, I was building a collection of a fair number of her pawns and knights and whatnot by my elbow. "I wonder how that came to be!"

"Worry not, my Lady; you may challenge me to a rematch when you find yourself losing this game."

"Oh, well, isn't he cocky!" she teased, and reached across the table to ruffle my hair. The draping sleeve of her gown scattered the pieces in play. There was no continuing the game now. "Oh my," she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth, "how dreadful. It seems as if you won't come out the victor of this game, Lord Faramir!" It was then that I realized she'd put her hand over her mouth to disguise her smile.

I could but smile back.

* * *

11.

I was sure that if I looked in a mirror, my reflection would resemble hers: ashen-faced, grim, and wild, fearful eyes.

It had been mere hours since our soldiers had ridden out of Gondor. I was convinced that it was for the last time. Éowyn hadn't spoken since our customary greeting this morning, and it was verging on noontime. We sat on the familiar bench looking out over the market district of Minas Tirith, but if she and I were anything alike, I don't believe she noted anything her eyes passed over, just as I did not.

"My Lord—" she began suddenly, and cleared her throat, for her voice had become gravelly with disuse, "My Lord. I pray for you to tell me what is on your mind, for I fear if I think to myself any longer I may burst." she bit her lip and gazed, unseeing, across the dark city. There was no activity outside the houses; evidently our grim mood was shared by all left behind today.

"I fear that I consider the same topics as you," I began, "but if you'd like, we may discuss certain things of a frivolous nature, in order to distract us from our own personal thoughts."

A slight fire was lit in Éowyn's eyes. "Yes, I think I would like that very much. Very well. How shall we begin?" I folded my hands over my lap, and then flexed my shoulder.

"Perhaps we might begin with discussing the weather and its recent trends, and then go on to contemplate the state of the staff here, for they seem to be quite on edge; and then we may deliberate on what is to be served for dinner, and whether or not Master Meriadoc would care to sup with us tonight."

Éowyn glanced over with tear-filled eyes, the mood quickly turning sentimental and serious. "Thank you, Faramir, for humoring me. I do not know how I would survive this if it were not for you." she placed her hand atop mine.

This was not the first time she had held my hand, but that simple act never ceased to affect me. I grew daring and leaned my forehead onto hers. We sat, breathing, staring into each others' eyes as if they held the key to salvation.

Finally, Éowyn blinked and dispelled the illusion, drawing away. She stood, brushing off her skirts, and motioned for me to follow. We struck up our familiar path into the gardens.

"Dreadful weather we've been having of late, dear Faramir, am I right?"

* * *

12.

It was another one of those dreary days which compel me to sit around and accomplish little. Today, I sat with the Lady Éowyn in her bedchamber, as she was suffering from a light fever. Her condition seemed to fluctuate; often she was strong and healthy-looking, and then occasionally she became weak and insufferable. I knew this was a product of the Witch-king's attack.

I was in the middle of reading to her from a book of poetry I'd requested from the library. Up til now she'd been lying in bed, watching me. Her gaze was unsettling, as it never wavered and hung eagerly upon my face.

"My Lord," she interrupted suddenly, "Might I perhaps have something to drink?" stirred from my readings, I acquiesced and poured her some water. She batted my hands away when I tried to help her drink it. "I can drink just fine on my own; I am not so weak as to require assistance for the most base banalities." I knew better than to be stung by her remark, so I looked upon her with what I hoped was a sort of quiet apathy until she finished drinking. She motioned for me to continue. I took up my book again and she settled back into her pillows. My voice faltered slightly to see the sight of her hair, lustrous even in sickness, spread across the pillows. I was sure that she was more fair than even the fairest elf-maiden.

Some time passed and she just have been lulled to sleep by my voice, because she began to toss about in bed and groan and utter odd things.

"My Lady?" I asked, perturbed, for she had just cried for a Wormtongue to please let her be. My words were not recognized, however, and she continued to weep over the death of a man called Theodred, and thrash about in the bed. I knew better than to call for her ladies-in-waiting, for they would have me leave and send me dirty looks and never permit me to return.

"My Lady," I began again, louder this time, so as to be heard over the increasing volume of her wails, "My Lady, please listen! You are safe now, you are well!"

She paused, and opened her eyes. I hoped her vision was cleared and that her delusions had passed. But then she spoke. "My Lord?" she raised a quivering hand to my face. "Aragorn, is it truly you? I thought you to be dead! You fell!" the tenderness with which she spoke tore at my heart, and I knew not how to react.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn— Isildur's heir? She and him were familiar with each other? How had this come to pass? Resentment welled up in me; I had hoped, for many a fortnight now, that I was slowly but surely winning Lady Éowyn's heart, that she had begun to feel the same way as I did when in her company.

Could my hopes be dashed so suddenly by this man who had ascended almost into the status of myth? I was lower in rank than he, more inexperienced in battle than he, and surely less dashing than he.

How could I ever try to compete?

I had almost lost myself in my brokenhearted musings when Éowyn's hand fell limply from my face. I dared not raise my eyes to meet her beauty; I feared I would fall apart completely if I were to meet her gaze one more time.

"Faramir?" I did not let my body react to her call. "Faramir... I am frightened! Have you gone somewhere? I can't see you... have you run ahead? Please return! I cannot find my way. I fear the Witch-king is upon us... Faramir, he terrifies me. I am afraid. There. I've said it. I am afraid. These words I have never uttered before in my life, but I would entrust them to you because I know you will keep them well. Faramir, please come back—!"

I raised my head.

The clouds in her eyes had yet to clear. She still dreamed, then.

She dreamed... of me.

I knew not how to react to this. A moment ago she had been cooing over a figment of Aragorn, and now she was reaching out to find— me? I identified the fear in her voice, the sheer terror when she cried that she was frightened and asked for me to be closer. All of a sudden, the tenderness with which she'd addressed her dream-Aragorn was dashed away like water-paints on a canvas, reduced to insignificance, and was replaced by the fervor to have me nearby.

My heart was motivated to break all over again, but in the most astonishing way; for it seemed to be tearing itself apart and knitting itself back together all at once.

I reached for her hand and held it in a strong grasp. "Éowyn, you must wake," I commanded, as forcefully as I could when faced with a feverish lady. "You— you must wake so that I can be assured of your health. I, Lord Faramir, ask you to please return." I felt rather foolish saying this, and quite daft, but my words seemed to hold the key: she blinked several times, and the fog dissipated from her face.

"Faramir?" she asked, as if tentative to hear the answer.

"Yes, it is I," I replied, unconsciously smoothing her flaxen hair from her forehead. "I remain at your side."

"Stay," she pleaded, "stay until I am well again." I nodded in response, for a knot had arisen in my throat and speech was beyond my ability just then.

"I will stay as long as you desire, Éowyn."

* * *

13.

"Lady Éowyn! Lady Éowyn!" the halfling, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, who I'd thought was a child upon further notice, ran down the lane and into Éowyn's arms. "Lady Éowyn, how splendid to see you recovering!"

Éowyn laughed. "My thanks, Merry! You are looking much better now. How do you feel?"

"Hungry," he replied promptly, and the two companions fell to laughing. I, seated on a garden bench nearby, peeked overtop my book and almost felt a tremble of jealousy in the way the small man daringly held Lady Éowyn's hand as they frolicked around the gardens together. However, I knew not to envy him; even though Lady Éowyn and I were still acquaintances, I knew well enough how to read her, and I knew that they were but the closest of friends.

It was now a fortnight since she and I first met, and I had never been as interested in any person than I was in her. I yearned to know the deepest secrets of her heart; her dearest wishes, her longings; I yearned to hold her hand the way Meriadoc Brandybuck did. But I, the fool, could barely stutter a "Good morning, my Lady" before competely losing memory of the most basic intricacies of the Common Tongue.

I was shaken from my reverie by the Lady in question. "Good morrow, my Lord Faramir!" I glanced up against my better judgement to see the most glorious sight: Lady Éowyn's hair flew in the wind and her cheeks were graced with the deepest of flushes, from her gallivanting around with the halfling.

"Good— yes, good morrow—" I called over, feeling my face heat. I inwardly cursed. I was such an imbecile. She grinned and waved, and ran off to find her friend.

Raising my book, I sighed and resigned myself to reading the same sentence over again for the next hour.

* * *

14.

Last night I did not dream of the usual flash of fire; instead, I had a vision of Boromir, who warned me of things to come.

"My brother," he said, holding out his hands in supplication, "I do not have long, but I beg you to receive a message." his face was shrouded in mist, but I recognized his voice. His voice would haunt me to the end of my days.

"Of course, brother," I replied. "Is father with you?"

He disregarded my question. I wondered if he could hear what I said. "I have a message," he continued. "from the Undying Lands."

"Boromir, do you hear my words?" I asked. I thought I saw a brief nod through the fog. "Then I pray, listen to me. I know not if our father is with you in the afterlife, but if that is so, I would ask for him to come forth. And if that is not so, I would ask you to deliver him a message."

"Yes, brother, anything," Boromir's voice came thickly through the gathering haze.

Feeling rather awkward, I cleared my throat and began. "My father, I would beg of you the gift of forgiveness for my transgressions. I would beg of you to allow me peace of mind. I would beg of you to live an eternity of happiness with Boromir and never darken your thoughts with my presence again. I love you, and I am sorry for that." I was then so overcome that I could not finish speaking, and I stood trying to clear the knot in my throat and the tears from my eyes.

"My brother," Boromir said softly, "You cannot blame yourself for our father's misery. He loved you!"

This time I permitted a single tear to trail down my cheek.

And then I awoke.

* * *

15.

We reclined against an apple tree, shading our faces from the hot sun. Éowyn rested her head against my shoulder— the uninjured one— and dragged her fingers along my knee.

"Have you given much thought to that question I asked you?" Éowyn's voice was smooth and soft, and unhurried. I flexed my shoulder.

"Yes, I have," I said, reaching for one of the ruined apples littering the ground. I did not know where to begin; I had formulated my answer, but was insecure as to Éowyn's reception of it. The silence festered and became awkward.

"Well?" she prompted after some moments. "May I hear your answer? Tell me you did not write verse!" I forced a chuckle from my dry throat.

"I..." I chipped at the rotten apple with a nail. "I am not confident in your reaction." Éowyn took the apple from my hands, aimed, and hit a random wanderer smartly on the back of the head. We laughed for some time, and I hoped, foolishly, that she'd forgotten to ask for my answer.

"That was fun, but now I'd like to hear what you have to say." Éowyn raised an eyebrow. I sighed, heart deflating.

I steeled myself for certain doom.

Do you ever wonder how your life would have been with the absence of fear?

"I cannot begin to imagine how my life would have been without fear. Fear traveled close to me on all my journeys and battles; lay beside me and whispered in my ear at night; unduly influenced my decisions; accompanied the Steward's ring on my father's finger as he swung it up to meet my face... if I had not been intimately acquainted with fear, I would not have known the courage that allowed me to ride out to Osgiliath, and to my death, and if I had not ridden to Osgiliath, I would not have been so fatally injured as to have been sent to the Houses of Healing." here I had to pause, and I turned to Éowyn and gently turned her face towards me.

"And if I had not been sent to the Houses of Healing, I would not have met the most important person of my life." this confession brought me to my knees, so to speak; by the end of my monologue my voice had quite failed me and I was left whispering. I waited tensely, instantly regretting my words.

She could not, would not, accept me as anything but a dear friend. It had become my greatest fear, and yet it was something I had resigned myself to since the moment I laid eyes on her. She would marry another man— perhaps the rightful King of Gondor— and would enjoy having me in her company, but not romantically.

I was working myself into a depression and so did not notice the fleeting smile that traveled across Éowyn's face, and I did not notice her hand coming up to grip my hair tightly.

But I did notice the feeling of her lips on mine.

I reacted immediately, responding in kind, for this was what I had dreamed of for many long nights.

When we broke apart, she held me close and gazed into my eyes.

"There is nowhere on Middle-earth that I would rather be."

* * *

_For Sam. _


End file.
